Publisher's Synopsis
"Say, got the makings?" "Eh?" inquired Tom Reade, glancing up in mild astonishment. "Got the makings?" persisted the thin dough-faced lad of fourteen who had come into the tent. "I believe we have the makings for supper, if you mean that you're hungry," Tom rejoined. "But you've just had your dinner." "I know I have," replied the youngster. "That's why I want my smoke." "Your wha-a-at?" insisted Tom. By this time light had begun to dawn upon the bronzed, athletic young engineer, but he preferred to pretend ignorance a little while longer. "Say, don't you carry the makings?" demanded the boy. "You'll have to be more explicit," Tom retorted. "Just what are you up to? What do you want anyway?" "I want the makings for a cigarette," replied the boy, shifting uneasily to the other foot. "You said you'd pay me five dollars a month and find me in everything, didn't you?"
